


the tragic sex appeal of benched athletes

by duravis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Banter, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Post Time-Skip, just for flavor, oh god if the me from 42 hours ago could witness the extent of my yakuatsu brainrot...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25299079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duravis/pseuds/duravis
Summary: Atsumu doesn’t have an ounce of shame believing that he was born to do great things.(Yaku doesn't have an ounce of shame, either, but like, in general.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Yaku Morisuke, Miya Atsumu/Yaku Morisuke
Comments: 25
Kudos: 109





	the tragic sex appeal of benched athletes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [sự quyến rũ đầy bi kịch của những vận động viên ngồi ghế dự bị](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25378033) by [gorgonlovebot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgonlovebot/pseuds/gorgonlovebot)



> *drops this and runs*

Atsumu doesn’t have an ounce of shame believing that he was born to do great things.

Never has he felt a deeper sense of belonging than he does when he stands center-stage, in the middle of the court, as the crowd around him holds its collective breath. Never has he felt more in his element than when his nails dig into the skin of his palm, when the sound of a ball hitting the floor echoes around a stadium, when the crowd finds its voice yet again. Atsumu is a hated man everywhere but on the vinyl. There, and only there, is he loved.

Hence why he’s never felt so disappointed by the feel of a wooden bench beneath his ass when his ass should, rightfully, be broadcast to millions of people all over the world. It’s a direct hit to his image – to watch as Kageyama Tobio dashes across the court like he owns the entire goddamn Olympics. He’d even call it shameful.

A long, drawn-out sigh reverberates from somewhere beside and below him and he’s suddenly struck with the fact that there are, in total, twelve players on their team, but only six of them are allowed to stand on the court at any given time. His suffering and agony are not limited to himself.

“Fuckin’ Komori," Yaku curses, crossing his arms and shifting some weight off his rigid shoulders. "What’s a few extra inches for a goddamn libero?”

Atsumu’s eyes follow the ball from the hand of the opposite team's hitter to where it plummets down onto their side of the court. Before it falls, however, Komori Motoya, clad in the all-black of Japan’s national volleyball team’s libero jersey, dives in for the save. _His limbs are rather long for his position_ , Atsumu inwardly agrees.

He watches, transfixed, as his teammate barely makes it underneath the ball in time. All that matters, though, is that he _does_ make it in time, and that the ball ricochets off his forearms and flies into the air – still in play – and in a beautiful arc, at that.

It’s a clean save. There’s no use denying it.

“A lot, apparently,” he belatedly responds, self-aware enough to know that the comment wasn’t for him.

He feels his teammate's gaze burn a hole into the side of his face, the contempt and weariness it holds like fuel to the flames. Atsumu can’t help but smile, a little, at its intensity. Especially when he knows whose those eyes the gaze belong to, knows how fierce that glare is to receive directly.

Yaku Morisuke– Nekoma-born libero, once in the Russian Volleyball Super League, now an Olympic player for his home country of Japan. Atsumu had never played him before they met just a month and a half ago. He doesn’t think he’s ever met someone who took so much displeasure in his existence, and Atsumu has an entire twin brother back at home. (Who, for the record, Yaku is several times more fond of after only meeting _once_ , which just isn’t very fair at all.)

Him and Yaku – they’re Olympic-level athletes. They don’t need to go overtime practicing late in the day after every player or staff has already left, late in the evening after every cicada dwelling outside the gym has already fallen silent, but they do anyway. One last monstrous serve from Atsumu spurs on one last monstrous receive from Yaku. The synchronization of it all gives Atsumu’s heart a rush, and he moves to serve again, despite Yaku's earlier insistence of "just one more". You know how these things go – you've eaten a slice of cake before; you've watched an episode of Neon Genesis Evangelion.

Atsumu is also undeniably a worse player with Yaku chewing him out over every easy-to-receive serve and Yaku knows this. Yaku is likely also aware that his serves _aren’t_ easy to receive in the slightest, but rather he’s just really damn good at his job. However the gods bestowed upon him Yaku Morisuke as an effort to humble him, if nothing else, so he’d never let Atsumu know either way.

Instead, it’s: “ _You call that a jump floater? That thing floated like a pile of fuckin’ bricks. With a goddamn elephant on top of it. And a bulldozer, too._ ”

Atsumu seethes behind a smile and hits the ball harder, until his hands are as red as his jersey. Yaku grunts beneath a laugh and braces himself firmer, until his forearms are as saturated as the LCL sea. When the ball finally strikes off of his arms and hits the gym wall with a pronounced _slap_ , they stand in silence for a few, infinite minutes – impossible to measure.

They then walk home, exhausted enough to know that they’re going to do the exact same thing the next day. And the day after that, too, for good measure. It’s inevitable– having to strive further and further because the only thing you can see at the end of the tunnel is a bench with your name and number engraved in it. You'll start to try your hand at digging out at the wall, branching out from the tunnel, anything to find a single goddamn ray of light.

Yaku looks away from him the way one might look away from a car wreck on the freeway in order to keep yourself from ending up in a similar situation. “He’s a damn prodigy. And he played for Itachiyama High, yeah? Figures.”

Atsumu hums. “Good school. Good players from that school,” He agrees, thinking of Sakusa, who had just been sent a ball from Kageyama Tobio. His spike is blocked shortly after it comes into contact with his hand.

“Damn it,” they say simultaneously, like a reflex.

Yaku continues his tirade: “So what, Nekoma and Inarizaki grads are third-rate now?”

“Speak for yourself. My team was the second best in the nation, ya know?”

“Good for you. Though it looks like you're still benched.”

Atsumu feels a vein in his forehead begin to bulge, a due consequence of finally acknowledging the elephant in the room. “Point taken.”

Yaku takes one glace over at him and laughs. “Relax, pretty boy. You’re impressive and all– just drew the short end of the stick. _”_

And Atsumu is nothing if not an opportunist when it comes to poor word choice, eager for any chance to use another man's error to crush his spirit. “Not entirely sure if _I’m_ the one who drew the _short_ –”

“Finish that thought and you’ll spend the rest of the 2020 Olypmics in a hospital bed,” Yaku threatens, and Atsumu falls silent, a remarkable feat for him.

He’s not sure what about his banter with Yaku is different from the kind he has with his brother, or Sakusa, or anyone he’s ever graced with his presence long enough for them to grow to resent him. Being threatened is nothing new. Being threatened is like a validation, an encouragement, a sign that he’s digging at the right side of the tunnel, prodding at the right bruise. It’s sadistic. It’s masochistic. It’s how he thrives, day-to-day.

Yet somehow there’s still a retort stuck in the back of his throat, too reluctant to make its way out of his mouth.

He looks down at Yaku and takes in the way his eyebrows furrow into deeply-set lines, the way his eyes are drawn sharp against the rest of his features, the way he looks like he wouldn't be bothered in the slightest if Atsumu were to be rolled out in a stretcher sometime within the next rally. It’s the way someone looks when they’ve never had a regret a day in their life, or at least one they couldn’t stomach alongside six vodka tonics. Atsumu thinks that Yaku could, in fact, kill him, if he wanted to. The thought has him nodding enthusiastically to himself while he counts the days he has left on this earth. Or the hours.

Yaku stares at the wagging of his head like he’s gone absolutely mad. His face contorts into something equal parts confusion and scorn, making it seem like he’s just bit into a very sour lemon on accident, or killed a man on purpose, or both.

Minutes, he settles on.

Atsumu opens his mouth to explain himself, despite not knowing exactly what to say as an explanation, but then his team scores a point. Second set, 18 - 17.

He curls his fist into a ball and cheers. Yaku does the sam. And so does the crowd. It seems that, miraculously, Atsumu will be living to see another day.

* * *

It’s after the match – after the crowd has filtered out of the arena, after their seats have long been empty, after there are only memories of how deafening they roared when Kageyama Tobio finalized the last rally with a freak quick-set that had been long overdue – when Atsumu pulls Yaku to the side.

He tells him: “Ya know, you _could_ , like, _probably_ kill me. If ya felt so inclined.”

“I know," Yaku says, suppressing a laugh, as if he's grown accustomed to Atsumu's antics by now.

“But you really shouldn’t go around saying stuff like that. I have a very good memory. I’ll eventually take you up on it.” He then yawns, as if all the receiving and passing and diving he hadn’t done in their match tired him to the bone.

Atsumu finds himself yawning, too, for the same reasons. “Yea, okay,” he says.

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> where were you when the yakuatsu brainrot hit? and how has it been treating you, personally? please let me know. you must already know how it's been treating me by now. *sweats*
> 
> also note that i have absolutely no idea what will go down in hq 402 so. if this is all my own canon-divergent bullshit so be it
> 
> twitter (i don't have an ounce of shame either so. FOLLOW ME HERE. i had 30 followers this morning and that number is now 27. heart been broke so many times–): [glocksgenya](https://twitter.com/glocksgenya)  
> tumblr: [tatakaedrey](https://tatakaedrey.tumblr.com/)


End file.
